


Atrophy

by orphan_account



Series: Atrophy/Rejuvenate [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Chubstuck, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Enabler Gamzee Makara, Enabling, Fat - Freeform, Fatstuck, Fear of Death, Homestuffed, Immobility, M/M, Medical issues, Stuffing, VERY light slob, Weight Gain, fat kink, mental issues, obesity, will only delve into light stains and sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Years after highschool, Karkat is met with his old best friend, Gamzee Makara. At first things seem normal, but as the days and weeks go by, and Karkat's weight continues to rise, he can't help but worry for himself, and his friend.But, Gamzee just so nice to him. He can't ever find the conscious to say no.
Relationships: Gamzee Makara/Karkat Vantas
Series: Atrophy/Rejuvenate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703620
Comments: 11
Kudos: 58





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.
> 
> this is a fatkink centered roleplay, and a dark one at that. please heed the tags seriously, and be aware some things may be triggering.
> 
> SPECIFICALLY TRIGGERING CONTENT WILL BE TAGGED AT THE BEGINNING OF THE CHAPTER IT IS IN.

You had always been chubby. A bit overweight, to be frank. There was always that tiny bit of sloping fat on your belly, a soft pinch to your arms and legs, a slightly rounder edge to your cheeks. There was always muscle, sure, under those few soft layers- and you were an absolute tank when it came to sports like American football- but you were never attractive. Conventionally attractive. Or just really attractive at all. You were average; just the small, spitfire of a guy in highschool, fitting the stereotype that all short people had short tempers. You were the average angry kid in a small highschool with only the stoner lazy kid as a best friend, because half of your old friends moved cross country and the other half went to hang out with someone like Dave Strider instead.

You weren’t upset about it, though. Highschool was years ago, and you were certain you finally started to fight that part of you that had been haunting you. Sure, you never managed to shake off that initial freshman fifteen, but you were certain that you’ve got the muscle mass to match. Absolutely. You were dead fucking positive about this. You put in the effort to try and curb your not too great eating habits, and you were finally starting to reap the awards. You were certain. It had to be real.

But sometimes you could have cheat days. Yeah, a cheat day here and there. Maybe that was why you were standing in the middle of Walmart, eyeing up the Little Debbie snack boxes like you were staring at an all too interesting romcom. Maybe that was a bit overdoing it- you were simply looking to buy something to munch on at your job. That was it. Your eyes scanning the multiple different high sugar snacks fully distracted you from the world around you, and as you reached to grab the strawberry swiss swirls, a noise startled you enough to drop the box to the floor with a thump.

“Karkat!” A familiar voice made you hiss, fumbling for the box of swirls as you turned your head to face the man in full detail. Instantly, you recognized him- just as lanky as he was skinny, with a massive puff of hair that came from his head like cotton candy. There was a dopey, vacant look in his eyes, clothes hanging off his lithe frame like soaked clothes from a clothesline, and with him came the rank smell of weed. “What’s up, my favorite little spitfire?” He spoke in a scratchy, though calm voice, and it took him a whole five seconds to realize you were picking up a dropped item.

“Oh, damn. Did I freak you out?” You stop him before he can bend over, a slight hiss to your own rougher tone.

“It’s fine, Gamzee. I’m fine. How are you.” You ask just because it’s polite, and not because you’re all that thrilled to know. Gamzee had been your only friend back in highschool, and while you liked the guy, you also would like to leave that part of your life completely behind you. Weed smelling men included. But even though you’re seething with annoyance, bushy eyebrows furrowed and mouth in a thin line, he continues as if you’re not irritated to high heaven.

His lazy smile curls into something wider. “Aw, it’s been good as hell. I all up and got myself in the local culinary school. It’s bitchtits, bro. Got so many ideas up in this thing.” He taps the side of his forehead with a painted nail. You try and not make a noise that would make him feel bad, stifling a grunt of anger as you finally clamor back to your feet. The box of strawberry swirls is firmly held in your grasp. Gamzee doesn’t catch the awkward silence and continues as ever. “How’re you? Have you got yourself through your film major yet?”

You shrug. “No.” Your voice is blunt, and you can’t quite meet the other’s eye. “I dropped out a couple months ago.” It’s a sore spot for you. Turns out that bastard Strider was a much better script writer than you, and one thing led to another, and…- “Had a thing going with Eridan, but we’re not together anymore.”

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and you slightly puff upwards. “Damn, that’s the worst thing I heard all week.” You shrug off Gamzee’s calm words with a slight shove, and you not so graciously drop the box into your cart. It’s the only thing in there, besides a humidifier and a bag of Doritos. You were only coming for the humidifier, but the thought of Doritos had swayed your thoughts, and then you were thinking about Little Debbie… “It’s okay, I’m doing better now, really.”

Gamzee hums. Thankfully he chooses not to continue that train of thought. “Strawberry swirls are the bomb.” He reaches over your head to take another box from the shelf. “But I like honey buns, personally.” Without asking, he tosses the box into the cart, and though you open your mouth to complain, he continues. “They got that perfect amount of factory made slime that doesn’t even taste like honey, y’know? What the fuck even is that goop, anyway? They put some frosting in a blender or some wack shit like that?” You are thoroughly silenced by his words. So much so, that you’re too confused to really complain when he takes the cart from your hands. You walk beside him as he walks along the isle.

“Man, that’s the specialty about factory made. You just don’t know what the fuck they got all up in there. Motherfuckers be ‘Bam! Now we got to make this for millions of people! How’re we gonna make so much shit in so little time?’ And then they just fuckin’ do it!” He lazily waves a hand while he walks. Gamzee’s always been like this. Always rambling, always taking the reigns between you two. You want to push him away and tell him this is your shopping trip, not his, but you’re still too baffled to do so. Your friend just has that effect, like some super power. You can’t quite explain it.

You follow him as he piles things into your cart. Goldfish, Cheezits, ice cream- everything fatty, and definitely not good for your health. You were having a cheat day, right? The excuse hangs in your head by a tiny thread as Gamzee plops a couple two liters along with the rest. A cheat day. That was all this would be. Maybe Gamzee is just getting these for himself, and just forgot that this was your cart or something. That’s something he’d do. Or maybe he’s just joking about your weight, in a weird clown way that only he understands? Excuses pile in your head like the pile of food in the cart, and that initial thread easily snaps under all the weight.

You just sigh and follow him to the front of the store.

“Are you going to seriously fill my cart with useless shit and expect I pay for it?” You finally speak, a slight growl while Gamzee starts scanning items. He gives you a strange look. “’Course not, why would I make a friend pay for all this?” He speaks as if this was a completely normal thing friends do, and you are even more dumbfounded that before.

You eventually decide on just letting him do his thing, while you grumble under your breath. Something about cheat days; even you can’t quite place it, not when Gamzee is swiping a card and paying a hundred dollars worth of food on your behalf.

In a feeble attempt to maintain at least a shred of dominance, you huff, taking a few bags and putting them in the cart. “At least come and help me put these in my car.” He nods all dopey and friendly, and you push the cart out into the parking lot. You parked near the front of the store- an old beat up truck sits for all the world to see. You were never all that upset about having one, but for some reason, your eyes flick towards Gamzee- he looks vacant enough to look dead. You take it as a sign that he’s not disgusted in your vehicle and stop beside the back door.

As you place the bags in the back seat, he pipes up. “Why don’t we hang out at your place?” You may of snapped your head upwards a bit too fast, but you don’t really care. “I mean, we haven’t even hung out as best friends since highschool. It’d be hella to catch up on my good pal Karkat Vantas.”

“I… I guess?” You shrug. “Don’t you have friends you hang out with now or something? Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“He all up and kicked the bucket on me a few months back.” Oh. My. God. Did he just casually drop a bombshell onto you out of nowhere? You feel a slight pang of guilt for being at least a tiny bit snappy at him. He must be real torn over this. He probably just wanted to hang out with you to cope. God, you feel like an utter asshole. “I’m sorry dude.” You speak in a much softer tone, despite your irritation mere moments before. “I- yeah, sure. We can hang out.”

Gamzee grins, giving you a thumbs up while he takes the now empty cart from your hands. “I’ll go put this thing back with its family where it belongs.” Climbing into the driver’s seat, you puff, putting your hands on your face as you groan. What had been a normal fucking day had quickly turned into a mess: Gamzee just blasted your wall to smithereens, not only with the sudden appearance, but the mere fact that his boyfriend was dead and he was just okay with it. He acted as if nothing was wrong! He was weird, yeah, and a little bit out there, but he just had the gall to completely blow you over and make you spit out in alarm.

…Still. You’re his friend. And even though you were a complete asshole, you weren’t as much of an asshole to deny him one night of hanging out. He just lost his fucking boyfriend.

He climbs into the car with you, all gangly limbs and uncoordinated hair. He blinks once, twice, before he finally clicks the seatbelt into place, and he gives you another lopsided grin. “Don’t be so worried, man. I walked all the way here. I ain’t leavin’ no car behind.”

You shrug, sigh through your nose, and pull out the parking lot.

* * *

He whistles when you pull into the parking garage of your apartment complex. You don’t understand why, cause it’s nothing to whistle over. Situated right near the edge of the highway, your apartment complex stands more next to hotels and fast food joints than any actual decent part of the city. It stands much taller than the rest of the building, sporting an ugly pasty white hide and identical rectangular windows. It’s the best thing you can afford with the dead end job you have- and while it’s nothing close to your brother’s home, it’s home.

“You’ve been here this whole time?” Gamzee smiles, slipping out of the passenger seat. He stretches, his long limbs high above his head as he yawns. You just shrug absently, nosing through the back seat to double check the bags. “Shit. If I knew you were here, I would’ve come sooner!” He helps take most of the load, and you slightly twitch once you see how much he carries. A whopping six bags compared to your four. Was he really that strong? You shook it away with your own response as you head towards the back lobby.

“I’m on the top floor.” The taller man lets out another low whistle. You ignore it. “Fuckers to stupid to realize I asked for something lower. Do you know how hard it is to haul all my groceries when I’m by myself? Really. Fucking. Hard.”

The lobby is small and cozy, with a small seating area. There’s a lady behind the reception desk and she gives you a small wave, and you manage to only nervously wave back as you fumble for your keys. It only takes a moment before you insert your key into the slot, press the up button, and you’re inside the elevator. “It sounds like you’re haulin’ ass, man. Bustin’ your ass day in and day out. Probably got enough muscle to break through steel.” You’re not entirely sure about that. The sight of him easily carrying six plastic bags filled with food is enough for his words to deter you. Still, you murr in agreement, the elevator finally dinging as you step out into your floor.

You find your room number without much trouble, cracking open the door before you finally slipped inside. It’s nothing special: a single leather couch sits in a combined living and dining area, a small flat screen resting on a couple plastic travel tubs. The sliding glass door is shut, and there’s nothing on the balcony. A few posters depicting movies you like are plastered on the wall with tape and thumbtacks, and the fridge is barren except for a few notes from your dad. You like to keep your dad’s letters on there. As Gamzee places his bags on the kitchen island, you choose to nose your way through the lot. “Jesus.” You hiss. “How much food did you get?”

Gamzee’s smile widens. “Enough to keep you goin’ for a while.” He nudges the bags open, pulling out box after bag after tub after bottle. It’s truly a mountain of junk food, something you’ve never would’ve bought on your own. You’re skeptical.

But he did buy it for you. Maybe Gamzee bought things for his boyfriend or something.

He’s probably really torn up about it still.

“Uh.” Your voice loses you for a moment, before you shake your head clear. “You can crash on the couch or somethin’. I can put these away.” He nods, giving you one last pat on the shoulder before he disappears into the living room. You have trouble putting it all away- half of the shit you’ve never even had, at least when you had your own home- and you eventually give up and leave a good chunk of snack foods on the corner of the island. You end up bringing the strawberry swirls with you to the couch, because they’re fucking delicious and you love strawberry swirls.

Your friend has some movie on, something you don’t know. He doesn’t seem all too bothered either, as he’s currently taking a drag from a joint that’s in his hands. “Gamzee!” You’re not all that attached to the leather couch, but he’s getting ash on it, and there’s a waft of weed smell, and you stomp right over to the sliding glass door and yank it open.

He doesn’t even respond until a few seconds later, where he slightly jumps, his knuckle twitching around the joint. “Hm?” Blue-purple eyes land on you. “Oh shit, I’m sorry bro, forgot to ask if this was okay.”

“It’s--” You pause. Take a deep breath. You’re okay. You clutch the box of swirls with unnecessary tension, and as you breathe slowly, your grip loosens. “–fine.”

You plop onto the couch with a slight huff. “Just tell me next time.”

He chirps with a Sure thing, friend while you open the strawberry swirls. Already your mouth is watering in anticipation, and you unceremoniously shove the thing into your mouth, swallowing with a few thick gulps. Gamzee won’t care if you indulge a bit, right? He’s always chill. You convince yourself with a slight nod of your head. He’s too busy getting high off his shits to care anyway.

One swirl turns to two, and two turns to three, and before you know it you’ve pushed yourself through the whole box. You don’t know why you did it- not when Gamzee is right next to you. Maybe it was the weed? You know contact highs can be a thing, even if you only ever knew it as a rumor. Or maybe it was just the stress of seeing him after so long. You had always been a bit of a stress eater: one of the many ways you were always overweight. There’s a distinct pang in your belly that you can’t quite understand, and you absently rub at the side of it in a thin attempt to soothe it.

You didn’t even realize Gamzee had been staring. Eyes almost in a trance-like state, letting smoke leave his nostrils as his eyes glance over you. It’s nothing sexual- as far as you can tell, Gamzee isn’t sexual. But it’s something that promotes fascination. When you finally catch him staring, you sputter. All he does is smile that dopey smile as always, wide and showing small, pearly white fangs. “You all good, brother?” He speaks, and you let out a huff.

“I’d be fine if you weren’t fucking staring at me like I’m a pornstar.”

“Nah, dude. I don’t like that kinda shit. You know that. Just wonderin’ how a brother’s doin’. You look a bit stressed.”

Maybe it’s the weed, because you don’t shrink away when he pats your back. “I know just the thing to help a motherfucker in need. Sit tight, you’re gonna get some miraculous fuckin’ highs.”

He takes the empty box from your hands, and saunters off into the kitchen. When he returns, it’s in the company of a volley of snack boxes, stacked high in his arms. Your find your breath catching in your throat.

The boxes and bags of goodies fall next to you, followed by Gamzee himself. “Now whenever I’m down on my luck and stressed out to motherfuckin’ hell,” You can tell he’s about to go into a spiel, his eyes nearly sparkling with wonder as he waves his hands. “I think to myself: Damn, what’s the best way I can wash away all that blues? And you know what? I realized a good ol’ meal helps me calm down.” He nudges the bag of Doritos to you. “Maybe that’s the trick that’ll calm you down, too. Loosen up those gears. Straighten out that tight sprung spring.”

In any other circumstance, you’d be rolling your eyes at him. You’d be telling him to fuck off, or any other expletive you can think of. But you know Gamzee spent all of this for _you._ He spent over a hundred dollars on food for you, and his boyfriend just _died,_ and he’d be so disappointed in you if you refused. You were sure. You were supposed to be hanging out anyway. And fuck it- maybe he was actually right for once.

“Whatever.” Your actions betray your apathetic grunt, as you tear open the bag a bit too enthusiastic for it. Crunching into a chip, you truly realize how hungry you are, and your belly feels that same uncomfortable pang you felt before as you shovel in another handful. Perhaps this really is a cheat day; a really, really huge cheat day. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten as much as you have, not after countless weeks of attempting diet after diet. That freshman fifteen really did never leave you.

But those thoughts are in the back of your mind. Fishing out more handfuls, you let cheesy dust coat your hand, swallowing thickly. You can feel each mouthful fall into your gut, and for some reason, you like it. You really, really like it. Is this what Gamzee meant by helping you calm down? Either way, it’s working, and before you know it the Doritos are gone and honey buns are in your lap.

They go down without much trouble, either. Frosting stains the corners of your lips as you peel off wrapping and stuff the buns into your mouth. They really _are_ as good as Gamzee says they are. Your belly is finally starting to ache once you shave off the rest of the box, your sweater gently arching over the stuffed ball. Your breathing is slightly heavier than you remember.

“You’re really packing it in, huh?” Gamzee’s voice distracts you enough to not notice the slight twitch of your bulge. “You must really be a spring ready to snap. Here,” You don’t complain when he arches over a long, spindly arm, fingers gently brushing up your sweater. The sight of your gut, stuffed and round to bursting, leads your dick to twitch again. This time, you completely feel it. That uncomfortable pang in his belly gets worse. The weed smell is just another sensation to add to ever growing pile of them.

Your fingers brush against the last item: a tub of ice cream. It’s birthday cake; something you’d normally hate, but the thought of forcing it down makes your cock eager and your mind foggy. You have trouble opening the plastic lid- but thankfully, someone else is there to pop the lid open. “Don’t worry none, Karbro. I got you covered asap.” Before you can protest, his free hand scoops into the fresh tub of ice cream. Too desperate to ride the high of this pleasure, you run along and eat the handful right from his. It tastes like sugar and cream and _heaven._

He continues to feed you. Your belly aches horribly, stuffed to its absolute limit. And worst yet- you love it. You love that your hardened bulge is forced to be squished against the underside of it, love that your mind is fogged with pain and pleasure, love the thought that you can simply pack so much food into yourelf. You always thought you were vanilla. But now, you guess not.

You don’t remember finishing the tub. All you remember is the gasping, the soft whine that escaped your throat, the tiny pause before release, and the ecstasy as you bucked shamefully against your own gut. “You calm now, bro?” Oh, right. Gamzee was there. He was there the whole time. At the store, in your car, in your apartment. Here to…. watch….

You nod, and he chuckles, light and soft. Your belly is scratched and massaged with experienced fingers. You don’t dwell on how he knows the perfect places to rub and press. “Just relax those muscles there, best friend. I knew you’d be all nice and chill. My plans are foolproof.”

You ignore him, and eventually fall asleep, too full and too heavy to properly realize what had just happened.

* * *

You wake up hours later, when moonlight shines through the light of your sliding door. A cold night breeze tickles your belly, and you screw your eyes tighter, before sleepily blinking them open. You don’t remember, not at first- you shift into a sitting position, grumbling softly about the pain in your belly. As you rub it absently, you survey your surroundings: slight ash next to you on the couch, the trash bin empty. Huh, you wonder. Wasn’t it full yesterday? Fumbling around for your phone, you eventually open it and scroll through any messages.

Something from an unknown number.

_hey best friend. last night was wicked cool. i took out the trash and left right after, you were sleepin harder than a rock. wanna hang out sometime soon? :o)_

Everything hits you in a flash. You realize, a slight lump in your throat, that you _really_ want to do that again. Even the memory of the pleasure you felt is enough to make your bulge active once again.

You respond faster than you can imagine: _yeah, sure. wanna go to mcdonald’s or something?_

Strangely enough, the response is immediate.

_hell the fuck yeah bro! ill see you later this thursday. its gonna be sick. my treat! honk._

His treat. It’s gonna be his treat. Maybe he’ll do it all over again.

You’re a bit less grumpy when you get up to go to bed.


	2. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize if gamzee and karkat are more ooc than not. oops!

  
Thursday comes slower than you’d like to admit. You’ve kept yourself busy with multiple things while you waited: taking extra shifts so you can make some more cash, exploring the city to more of your heart’s content. Hell, you’ve even started up a conversation with Gamzee. He talks some weird shit most of the time, yeah, but you’ve come to realize that he’s still a good friend to you. You wonder why you were even edgy enough to cut him from your contact list when you graduated. 

But the biggest thing you’ve done to pass the time is look things up. You were curious about the weird experiences you had been feeling, and the weird experiences you’re still feeling when you simply even remember the thought. You had always thought yourself as vanilla, the basic bitch- so you never even bothered to search up fetishes. It embarrassed you too much to even search it up on incognito mode. But you needed to know. You needed to know. You needed to understand why stuffing yourself silly made you so hard, and why you were wishing Gamzee would do it again. 

It wasn’t hard to find a site about it, once you got past your initial embarrassment over it. What was hard was having enough courage to even post about it. Would everyone else on this forum even take you seriously?‌ Make fun of you for being this new and confused about it?‌ You felt like a fish out of water, flopping on the docks with a hard on for eating too many worms. But just like a fish out of water, you had to take the chances on jumping back in- or else you’d be fried and cooked. 

In other words, you had to type or be a little bitch and deal with it yourself. You posted a thread on Tuesday. 

**CANCERSTUBS** _wrote:_   
  
_hey. I’m new to this forum, yada yada yada. I’m mostly just here for advice than general chatter. the other day i met a childhood crush of mine, and he bought me a fuckton of food. like, an absolute fuckton. and to put it bluntly: ive never been into any fetishes like this. not at all. so why did i get off to stuffing myself silly that night? thanks - kv._   


When you come back that Thursday, anxious and shaking with anticipation for the night ahead of you, you have a volley of answers. Most are kind, some aren’t. The majority of them tell you that it’s a normal thing to develop and experience, and that you should just roll with it if it makes you feel good, as long as it’s consensual. But there’s one person that catches you off guard. 

****  
**SHARKBAIT77** _wrote:_   
  
_Stuffing is a-okay, OP. The rest of the posts here are my same sentiments. But there’s something you should be cautious over:‌ Which is obvious in hindsight, but not many people follow it. Stuffing WILL make you gain weight. Stuffing constantly will make you gain a LOT of weight. Make sure your friend knows this, always be sure to ask them to slow down or stop if you can. Just say no, yeah?_   
  
_Good luck OP. Welcome to the club._   


Yeah. That message really fucked with you when you first saw it. You don’t exactly know why, either. That’s the kicker. The entire rest of the thread was saying it’s okay, to not worry and just run with it, but this guy was genuinely _warning_ you of something. You were barely paranoid about these things. You were barely paranoid about Gamzee, if at all. But that excitement you’ve been feeling for hours wanes as you think over the words. 

The idea that you’d be stuffing yourself again makes it come back just as hard. He should just chill, right?‌Not get all stressed. Springs and spitfires and whatever the fuck he likes to ramble on about. 

…Yeah. You shouldn’t worry about it. 

* * *

You meet him in the front lobby of your apartment complex. This one is much nicer than the back- with a dinky little chandelier and a few pop and snack machines lining the walls. It’s safe to say that in your slight nervousness and excitement that you’ve eaten your way through a bag of chips due to it. With each and every ring of the entrance bell, you turn your head to try and see your friend, but soon realize it’s futile. By the time he does actually show up, however, you’ve long given up trying to check for him. 

So when he places a hand on your shoulder, you nearly jump out of your skin. 

“Motherfucker’s gone flighty over the years, huh?” He laughs, and you wipe away your embarrassment by pushing his hand off you. Yeah, you might’ve gotten scared when he came out of fucking nowhere, but doesn’t he know how to make noise when he walks for fucking once? You grumble out a ragged “Hey.” to help release some of that immediate anger. 

As always, he moves the conversation on long before you can continue it. “I’ve been excited to see you again, even after only a week.”‌ He’s already beginning to walk away, and you hurry your steps to catch up to him. 

“Yeah, me too. I’ve been dying to smell your rancid weed breath.”‌ You’re really just excited, nearly vibrating, trying to keep your composure with petty insults. Gamzee takes it in stride- or he just doesn’t realize that it’s an insult, like always. 

His car’s a lot nicer than yours. It’s sleek and black, studded with little fans on the end and black on the windows. When you slip inside, you realize the car seat is exceptionally comfy, and the car is surprisingly clean, given Gamzee’s… everything. He slips in beside you, checking the rearview mirror and adjusting his keys as he says “Seatbelts on, man.” It’s only a few moments before he’s pulled out of the parking garage and onto the road. 

As trees fly by you, you take note of your own frame. You could swear this sweater’s fit before- has that one single stuffing really made you this much bigger?‌ It can reach around the soft slope of your belly, but only just enough to where your sweater is clinging to it bravely. Similarly, it’s tight around the arms. You try to rationalize it in your head:‌ perhaps you just never noticed you were this big, after you read that forum post. Maybe you were just nervous about Gamzee. Maybe Gamzee’s old boyfriend was big or something. 

Maybe Gamzee put something in that food. 

The fleeting panic disappears as soon as it arrives. No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. Gamzee’s a weirdo, an extremely _huge_ weirdo, but he’s not downright evil. He’s taking you out for a meal, remember? Why would a good guy do that, anyway?‌ What kinda plan would he have to do that? 

You didn’t realize your breath was shaky until you let it out through your mouth. 

Thankfully, he drives into the parking lot just as you calm yourself down. “Here it is.”‌ Gamzee casts a half-lidded gaze over to the restaurant, looking over at the tacky yellow M that stretches over the entrance sign. You look into the store itself, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “The one and only.” 

He leads you into McDonald’s, and the second that salty, greasy smell hits you, you’re already getting excited again. What’s gotten _into_ you? Why are you so fucking excited when you haven’t before? Is it just the new feeling? You hate the conflicting thoughts. You hate them enough to shove them away when you finally look up at the meal. 

“What’re you lookin’ for?”‌ Gamzee goes on to list a whole bunch of meals you have no idea about. Honestly, you haven’t been to this place in years. You don’t know shit about McDonald’s, other than it has burgers. You respond with a snap. “I don’t care.” 

A pause. You suddenly feel guilty. “It’s on you.” 

“Can do.”‌ He looks at you and smiles, and you smile back, even if it’s forced. “Now why don’t you go find us a place to sit our asses on? I’ll get the grub and we can get our eat on.” 

You end up choosing a place near the back of the restaurant, where you can slide in a booth and hunch over your phone. There isn’t much to look at- just your brother sending you the entire Lord of The Rings novel worth of text like always, a shitty screenplay from Dave, and something really fucking stupid from John. You don’t have the time, nor the patience, to deal with them. All of your patience is for dealing with Gamzee’s bullshit, just so you can get a good meal out of it. You tell yourself that. Plus you think you’re helping him cope with that boyfriend issue. 

You really can’t get over that, can you?‌ You blush to yourself and try to hide yourself by burying your head in your arms on the table. The deep grumbles from your belly only barely distract you. 

The sound of a tray hitting the table makes you look up from your wallowing in misery, and all thoughts beforehand instantly evaporate at the sight. The tray is _heavy_ with bags- each stuffed to the brim. One bag, curiously, was only partly full. “They had to get the bags out, all of it won’t fit on one lil’ tray.” Gamzee speaks, casually, as he slides the tray on the table. He also places two large sodas next to them. 

“You were lookin’ stressed as hell.” Parts of his cheeks dust over with a slight flush, and he sits in the booth, already slouching as he opens the half full bag. “I saw you over here at this table, and I thought, man, this guy’s really all fit to burst! So I decided to get some more for you.” He smiles, all kind and dopey and gentle, and you feel your gut twist and knot. 

“…Thank you, Gamzee.”‌ You can only guess how many meals he got. “You really outdid yourself, huh?” 

The taller man laughs. “What’re friends for? I love makin’ others experience just how chill they can be.”‌ You nod absently, but truly, all of your mind is on the food. You’ve gotten what you wanted: you’ve gotten the chance to stuff yourself, with Gamzee right there, sipping on his soda and reaching in the bag for a fry. 

You eat… less ceremoniously. 

You wouldn’t want to say slobby, because you’re not that fucked up. Not even close. But you rip into a burger faster than what would be normal, and when you finish you don’t give yourself that much time to breathe. Salty, condiment-slathered meat and bread is all your mind is focused on, and you easily get through the first bag of burgers without much thought. Gamzee’s talking, something about his school, and you give fake hums of acknowledgement as you take in a swig of your drink. 

You shove in fries by the handful, sometimes not even bothering to soak them in sauce before you swallow the salty, greasy goods. Your belly starts with that uncomfortable-   
no, _pleasurable-_ pang, salt staining the corners of your lips. You wipe your mouth with your sleeve and keep going. 

Your belly expands under all the sudden intake, grumbling quite loudly for its size. The scene you’re making is enough to get people to stare. But Gamzee doesn’t make a fuss of it. If anything, he’s immensely fascinated, staring in that same trance-like state that you’ve caught him staring like before. His dopey smile is wide, and he helps nudge food closer to you when you can’t quite reach it. 

People are definitely staring, and they’re disgusted. 

But you don’t care. Your gut is aching with fullness, your taste buds alight with flavor and sensation. Your belly gently peeks out from under your belly, taut and full, but it’s still not _enough._ The food that’s been bought for you is all gone, but it’s still not enough to pull you beyond the edge. 

“Gamzee, can I…” You’re stopped, as he simply pushes his meal towards you. You don’t waste a second to shovel the last burger into your maw, savoring the taste with a soft groan that was a bit too loud for public spaces. There’s whispers around you, all of them judgmental, but Gamzee looks genuinely impressed and you can’t quite care. 

“Don’t worry Karkat, brother, I got you.” He slips out of his booth and helps you up, your belly sloshing painfully. You can’t help but let out a deep burp, ignoring the disgusted whispering around you. The place is silent except for you and your friend. In any other place, hell, at any other time, doing the same exact thing- you’d be so fucking embarrassed you’d burst. But Gamzee is right there, holding you close with an arm, helping you stumble out of the restaurant after he discards the trash. 

He helps you into the passenger seat, kind enough to buckle you in. And when he slips in beside you, he leans over, leaving a small peck on the apex of your growling, churning gut. When he drives down the road back to your apartment, he rubs your stomach in slow circles with a free hand. 

You’ve just became his friend again after a week, and he’s already spent so much money on you. And he’s been so _nice._ A perfect friend. The ideal friend. 

You’ve never felt more heavy in your life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont worry next chapter hell be actually fat and then itll speed up gomen


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the pace may be going fast at this point!!! i apologize, i hope im doing this concept justice!

You have to admit it. You’ve become fat. 

It was inevitable, wasn’t it?‌ The months hanging out with Gamzee, spending every single night stuffing yourself to bursting and relishing in the sexual climax you’d get. What had once been a gentle slope of fat swelled and blubbed out further and further, now hanging uselessly over your waistband. Your arms held nearly none of the muscle you’ve been nurturing for years, instead becoming soft and smooth. Your thighs didn’t fare much better- wide to accommodate your widened rump, which has become harder and harder to squeeze pants around. Even your face is rounder, the beginning of a second chin threatening to show itself. 

You’re not actually _that_ fat. You’ve seen people fatter before. You’ve seen people so fat they’ve gone immobile, back in those old Guinness World Record books Kankri hand-me-down’d to you. But you’re fat. You’re fat and you don’t know how to feel. Whatever it is, it isn’t good. 

Gamzee’s caught onto it, after a while. Those first two nights, you were actually stressed- stressed in a way you couldn’t place, but stressed nonetheless. But to be frank, once you realized the gratification it gave you, you started to… take advantage of it. Act stressed around him. _Tell_ him you’re stressed. It always worked, either out of his own stupidity or his own lack of care in it. He always got you the food, always rubbed your belly afterwards, always looked impressed and always looked encouraging. It makes you wonder if he knows it, and he’s just indulging you and your nasty fetish. But once you actually started to gain more weight than you realized, he’s caught on that you’re actually stressed. Not just faking it. 

He just has that talent. 

“Gamzee…” He’s over at your apartment again, sitting on the couch with one leg slung over the other. There’s some movie playing on the television that you don’t know, and he doesn’t even seem to know either. This seems incredibly familiar, except now you have a bigger belly, and bigger arms, and bigger legs and bigger butt- 

“Come over here.”‌ Gamzee beckons you over with a wave of his hand, and there’s only a few moments of hesitation before you make your way over to him. You try desperately to not get your thighs to rub together, but unfortunately, it leaves you with the tiniest waddle. You’re still embarrassed about it. When you sit on the couch, the frame creaks, just the slightest, smallest bit. Are you getting too embarrassed to not notice things like this? 

He lays a long, thin arm over your shoulders. He’s smoking a cigarette, filling the small room with smoke. “What’s got you all worked up?”‌ He gives you a glance that screams concern- or perhaps even alarm. “You’re standing over there like I’m some demon or somethin’!”‌ You feel bad. You don’t want him to feel like a demon, no matter how grouchy you can get. You shrug. 

“I don’t know.”‌ You speak, and a hand absently reaches downwards to rub at your distended gut. It lays in your lap like a small pile of dough, and you’ve gotten the habit of kneading it when you’re nervous. And for some reason- you’re always nervous around Gamzee. “I’ve just been gaining some weight, is all.”‌ Your voice softens. “It’s not even that fucking much and I’m throwing my shit about it…” 

“Awh, no need to worry none.”‌ Gamzee smiles. Still dopey. Still kind. Still so nice– just like him. “What’s a ‘lil weight gonna do to ya?‌ You see all those magazines and shit sayin’ you have to be thin as a twig.”‌ Gamzee shrugs, lifting up his free arm to accentuate the moment. “Shit, I say if you look good like a bit of meat on your bones, then you look good!” His smile persists. “And Karkat, you’re a fine looking motherfucker.” 

Your face flushes deep red. You imagine the forum post in your head, telling you, warning you of what could happen. That you could gain a lot of weight. That you could be _fat._ You already were fat. What could happen if you continued? But… 

Your dick twitches under your soft gut. You just love doing it so much. 

And he called you pretty. Even if it was in his own Gamzee way. 

You knead your soft belly harder. 

Gamzee rubs a hand over your back. “Aw, it’s okay. We don’t gotta worry about that shit at all! Besides, I’ve been wanting you to try somethin’ for me.” 

You shrug away his soothing hand. “If you think I’m going to smoke any of that shit, or any weed, you have another fucking thing coming.”‌ 

Despite your growl, he grins wider. “It’s not that at all, bro! You’re gonna love it.”‌ Leaning to his side, Gamzee rummages though his travel bag that he brought with him. At first he places a sandwich baggy on the coffee table- which was filled to the brim in brownies. And not just normal brownies- they were handmade. They were coated in layer after layer of frosting, chocolate chips dotting the soft velvet surface, and you swore you could see liquid chocolate dribbling from the center of one of them. Your fat belly growls in hunger at the mere sight. 

Even though you were worried about your own weight gain, you were still too eager to try them. Besides, Gamzee _made_ them for you. He put his time and effort into making these delicious brownies for you, and were you going to make him disappointed? Of course not. He lost a boyfriend. He’s so nice to you. 

Gamzee pulls out something else as well- and you soon recognize it as clothes. A _lot_ of clothes. Multiple pairs. Most of them were sweaters and sweatpants, but a few of them were jeans and normal tees. They were significantly larger than your old clothes; which, you had realized with horror before, were getting too small for your widening frame. Your gut always hung out from your largest sweater, and you couldn’t button up any of your pants. But these looked to fit perfectly around your frame, even hiding the small moobs you’ve come to develop. Gamzee grins with excitement, plopping it on your lap and watching as you stare down at the pile. 

“I. Uh. Wow.”‌ You squeak, and you shuffle through the pile of clothes as Gamzee opens up the baggie with a small snap. When you turn your head to say thank you, there’s a brownie inches from your mouth. 

“C’mon. Just trust me.” His purple eyes nearly glow, teeth iridescent and fingers poised as he gently shoves the brownie into your mouth. You huff around the piece, savoring its delectable flavor before you swallow it all down. It was so thick that you’re left licking chocolate from your teeth. And yes, it was filled with liquid sweet. 

You eat the rest of the batch on your own. Your belly wobbling in your lap, developing second chin poking out here or there as you chew down the fat slabs of brownie. They’re just so delicious, and _god,_ no wonder Gamzee’s acing all his school projects. 

You don’t feel it immediately at first. But the sheer amount of brownie you’ve eaten gets the effects going fast. All of a sudden, like you’ve been hit by a truck, you relax. The chocolate still on your tongue heightens to a near high heaven, and while your head gets fuzzy and slower, your belly growls in clear hunger. You’ve never gotten high before, and it shows. 

Gamzee chuckles, and rubs your soft gut with stroking fingers. The flesh is soft and malleable- even when you’re starved. You suppose that’s all the fat that’s accumulated on there. “See?‌ I told ya you could trust me.”‌ Your friend shifts off the couch, leaving you in a near comatose bliss. “Just sit your fine ass down and let me get something to calm that beast of yours.” 

There’s sounds in the kitchen. Baking sounds, you can tell- and each clatter of pot or pan makes your belly churn with want. You’re _starving._ You’re so _hungry._ You want to get off the couch and eat the half cooked mess Gamzee’s been making in the kitchen. 

You nearly do, but soon enough Gamzee arrives back, placing something on the coffee table. You don’t look to check what it is. All you hear is the sounds of something being cut, something being slipped on a paper plate, and then something is slowly pressed into your mouth. You’re fine with being fed, you decide, as the heightened taste of blueberry and whip cream enters your mouth. Gamzee’s speaking while you eat. 

“I knew you’d be so hungry.”‌ He chides, almost to himself. You don’t think about it. “I just gotta make sure a friend’s always satisfied, yeah?” 

Yeah, you think. Yeah, he does. You’re his friend. 

Something dings on your phone, but your hands are too stained to grab it. Thankfully, Gamzee picks it up for you, leaving you to devour the blueberry pie he’s made. The inside extremely thick and creamy- and the graham cracker nearly melts in your mouth. You’re probably making a mess of yourself at this rate. 

“I got you, bro. Hold on.” He speaks, and you absently nod, too engrossed in the meal to bother about someone texting you. You don’t even look up when he lets out a small hiss to himself. “Karbro, have you been skipping out on work?” 

You mumble something, before giggling. “Yeah…. Yeah, yeah I did.” You’ve been having trouble being at work lately. Ever since that first week, since that first trip to McDonald’s, you’ve been having issues. Even simple work became a chore; and soon, you lost all motivation to do any work at all. You’ve just been thinking about Gamzee. And food. And blueberry pie. A pleasurable wave passes through your spine, and you shudder around a mouthful. You love blueberry pie. 

“They let you go, brother.” 

You don’t realize it. And when you do… it isn’t so bad. 

You hated the job, anyway. Some shitty retail joint. It wasn’t anything near your dream. But still, there was something about it. Something that made you pause. You lost your job. You lost your job and you won’t have no income. You might lose your apartment. You could try to get another one, but… would you even care about it?‌ You don’t even care to write screenplays anymore, let alone some retail work. You’ll just get fired from that one. 

You’re so fat. Your belly’s so big. Bigger than at any other point in your life. 

You didn’t realize you were crying until you feel a familiar hand on your back. “Don’t cry.”‌ Gamzee’s voice is gentle, soft. His free hand drifts down to your belly, rubbing at the soft, malleable fat, and you silence your confused and bewildered sobs by eating the thick, sweet, pie. 

Why are you crying? 

“Don’t worry. I’ll go make you another pie, alright? It’ll calm you right down, I swear.” 

You want to argue, to say that you should lay off your treats, your hanging out, just so you can get your job back. You want to get a job, you want to get your motivation- 

But you just silently nod and stuff your face with the last slice of pie. 


	4. 4.

Gamzee’s at your door, knocking on it with gentle knuckles. With a belated huff in the back of your throat, you heave out of your couch, and go to open it.

It takes you a few moments- you have to stand in place, holding your belly with both hands to keep it from swaying too much. Your legs have to adjust to the floor, and you have to gently ease the pant out of your system. It’s hard- your belly, which has grown to meet your knees in the past couple of months, doesn’t stop wobbling with your heavy breaths. But you manage. You’ve been having to manage for quite some time now.

Wiping sweat from your brow, you waddle over to the door, opening it with a click of the handle. Your best friend is there, his dopey smile widening into a grin. He leans over and hugs you in a greeting, his slim body sinking into your layers of fat. You mumble “Hey.” in a tired, heavy voice. Gamzee’s been coming to your door lately. Either with food or with accommodations for you. He all pays for it out of pocket- every last penny.

You’ve been dependent on him for a while.

You lead him over to the couch, which has been upgraded from a single leather to a doubly wide cushioned one. The last one had become too small to fit both of you without uncomfortable wriggling involved. You can’t help but soak in the distinct weed smell he carries, and after a few moments you gently paw at his pocket to see if he has anything for you.

He smiles in kind, and gives you a baggie of brownies. You eat them voraciously.

It’s been a year since you’ve met up with Gamzee again. And over the months, your weight has skyrocketed. What was once a slightly overweight frame ballooned out into distinct obesity, your gut hanging low and your chin creasing off into two. Your ass, though not as massive as your stomach, is still ponderous and sloshy to the point of annoyance. Your thighs force you into a waddle wherever you go, and your moobs sit heavy upon your chest. Even your fingers are toes are chubby, and you’ve started to simply walk around with socks instead of shoes.

“I’ve got everything down in the trucks.” Gamzee speaks to you, gently curling a cowlick of sweaty hair as you blissfully fall into a high. You hum in response, licking chocolate off your fingers. Gamzee’s been paying for everything once you lost your job. He’s been paying for all the bills, even upgrading your internet to something faster and easier to use. Your small flat screen was updated to something bigger, and the bulk of his cash goes to food and accommodations. Growing clothes to match your growing frame, bigger furniture, bigger pies and cakes he’s made. Though your hesitance is still fruitful, you’re still stuck owing all of this to him. He’s spent thousands, truly thousands, only on you- how bad would he feel if you suddenly started to deny it?‌ You always accepted his gifts, his food, his belly rubs and kisses now and then.

You don’t want to disappoint him.

“Mngh.”‌ You mutter, and wipe another sheen of sweat on your forehead. “I’m tired.” A hand goes to rubbing your massive belly. It falls into two distinct rolls- one thick and flabby with fat, the other more rotund and rounded. Your friend knows just where to rub- going in between your rolls, rubbing your belly back and forth, making it wobble. The high makes it all the more better, and your soft complaints drift off into pleasured breathing. At one point, the rubbing would’ve weirded you out if you weren’t stuffed, but at this point you simply accept it.

“You haven’t even left the apartment yet!” Gamzee chuckles, and his eyes glance up to yours. Staring at you, as if you were the only thing in the entire world that he cared about. “Come on, Karkat. It’s just to the elevator. I’ll get you some McDonald’s on the way to my place.”

“And all the snacks?”

“Of course I got all the snacks. We’ll get you all up and chilled out.”

You’ve never been to Gamzee’s before. For all you know, it could be miles and miles away. You feel a slight twinge of fear at that- especially when the only thing in this apartment left is the couch.

“Are you sure you set up everything over there?”‌ You’re concerned, and Gamzee smiles empathetically, leaning over to kiss you. It’s never anything sexual, he never goes anything further than a peck- but the pecks have been getting more frequent over the months. You’ve started to get comforted by it, you guess, because your concern slowly fades. Or perhaps it’s just the weed that’s taking the edge off.

“’Course I did. Now come on, your new base is gettin’ cold without ya!” A hand slips behind your back, trying to get you to stand- but with a sudden wave of irritation you snap at him. “I can get up myself!”

Gamzee pulls away from you, staring as you slowly clamored to your feet. Your obese legs wobble with the effort, stomach swaying to and fro, hanging out of your t-shirt. It was a shirt Gamzee bought for you around fifty pounds ago, leaving your gut to hang out like you were wearing a crop top. Deep red stretchmarks are easily visible as you slowly begin your wobble to the door.

You need to take a small breath by the time you reach the doorframe, giving you enough time to turn your head and look back into your apartment. An apartment you owned, at one point. An apartment you got with your own money, when you had your own job, when it was only you against the world. Something hurts in your heart- you feel a pang of guilt hanging in the air above your head, like a guillotine ready to snap and release. You’re leaving everything behind. Everything you did… yourself.

Gamzee stands in that empty apartment behind you, patiently waiting with a kind smile. Your massive belly churns in hunger. Your mind drifts away from jobs and colleges, from apartments and reputations, right over to food. To McDonald’s. To strawberry swirls. To blueberry pie and honey buns.

Gamzee gently nudges you out of your home.

* * *

He ended up living four hours away, giving you enough time to devour all of the travel snacks he’d brought, the three Big Macs he’d bought for you, and the massive jug of slushy he got at a gas station. You’re just so _hungry_ nowadays, and the time where you’re not eating is getting shorter and shorter. It’s not bad, you think to yourself. I can still walk. I can still lose this if I want to. Gamzee’s just being a nice friend, and I’m helping him cope.

He must be so torn up over that death.

He has to get a seat belt extender so the normal seat belt doesn’t cut into your skin. There’s also a pillow attacked around your puffy, fatty neck- something you actually bought yourself, when you sold your beat up truck. It helps you sleep for most of the ride. You’ve been getting tired more often than not, too groggy to do much besides listen to Gamzee’s spiels and sleep. You like sleep. It’s one of the only things you can do extraordinarily well.

His house ends up being rather luxurious, all things considered. A large one story sitting right on a massive lake, effectively making his backyard a beach. The windows are massive and roomy, and the weather is a bright, clear blue sky. You watch in awe; as it’s nothing compared to your grimy old apartment. You vaguely remember him graduating his culinary school sometime during the year.

“That’s it, easy now.” You need actual help getting out of the car. It’s a lot different than a couch. Your belly compressing and rolling forward, you near collapse into Gamzee, who helps you struggle to your feet with a few pats on your padded back. A thin hand is intertwined with your chubby fingers, and your friend wastes no time in helping you towards the front door. “Don’t worry Karkat, I’ll get all your shit for ya. Some motherfuckers just need to relax.”

“Guh, yeah.” You huff in agreement.

He leaves you on a pristine white recliner, your belly large enough to cover the width of your lap, brushing your knees. It’s slick with a sheen of sweat, heaving up and down as you relax from the exertion of walking for so long. Your legs _ache;_ you really want to ask for another weed brownie or five, just so the pain can go away. You’re still not used to firey burn they give you if you sit on them too long. There’s a bowl of candy left on the table next to you, all of the Hershey kisses neatly unwrapped and ready for you. He’s so nice, taking the time to unwrap them all. You stuff your face to try and override the pain. You even lick the chocolate from your hand to get every single crumb. After that, you doze. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you listen as Gamzee and moving workers take all of your things into your new and forever home, most likely putting them into your room. You would’ve helped them- fuck, you really want to- but you’re so tired, and so hungry.

A ding from your phone eventually distracts you. It takes you a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the bright light, but with a chubby finger you realize who it is. It’s Dave. Instead of a screenplay or shitty rap like usual, however, it’s an invite.

_hey. hey karkat. karkat guess what  
_

You respond, taking careful time to erase every single mistake your chubby finger makes.

_what is it?‌ i’m busy._

He responds immediately.

_youre not gonna fucking believe this. alright. youve just been invited check it youve just been invited to our school fucking reunion class of 20xx baybee_

There’s a school reunion?‌ You rub the apex of your belly nervously at that. You’ve gotten yourself used to stares at restaurants. You’ve gotten yourself used to the whispering the slander. But that was from strangers. From people you know?‌ You don’t know how you’d handle it. You wish you could call Gamzee and ask him for advice about this.

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the screen.

_is tyhere gonna be foodg there_

_of course dude. theres gonna be so much food there youre going to get fucking hammered with the sight of it all im talking…_

You don’t read the rest of his text. You ask him where it’s held and when it is, ask to see if Gamzee can come, and put your phone away. Thankfully, by the time you place your phone on the table beside you, said person is making his way over. “So, what do you think?”‌ He speaks, sweeping his arms out and grinning up a storm. “Is Casa de Makara pretty wicked or what?”‌

“It’s nice.” You respond, before slightly shifting in your seat. “Gamzee, do you have any more of those– my legs hurt so bad.”‌ You bite your bottom lip, your belly sloshing as you try to come up from the recliner. Gamzee gently takes a hold of your chest, and helps you back down, even reclining the seat for you. You sigh in relief when he lifts up your massive belly to inspect your legs. “You’re all up and sweatin’ like a pig in there, bro.” Instead of letting your belly flop back down, he slowly lowers it, letting it gently wobble back into place on top of your thighs. “Let me get you an ice pack. And of course I’ll get my best friend another helpin’ of brownies. I made a batch just before getting here.”

You quietly thank him, leaving him to his work. Well, leaving him to _work._ There isn’t any shared work, not from you- you’re unmotivated to do most things, and you get so tired and shaky only after doing mere minutes of hard labor. Your belly aches worse and worse even attempting to do something close to work. Gamzee’s doing all the work, and you dwell on that even when he returns.

You make grabby hands, shame creeping onto your face as you flush. You _need_ the brownies. They make the pain go away. Shoving the thick, delicious pastries into your gullet, you outwardly moan, cock twitching between the folds of your gut and fatpad. Even after all this time, the idea of stuffing yourself makes you so hard.

Gamzee takes a gentle hold of your belly, patting it and rubbing its size as he runs the cold washcloth over your sweaty thighs. They dip between rolls, going nearer and nearer towards you cock, making you shiver and huff with anticipation. You can’t help it, and he knows it- as the moment he cups the head of your dick with the washcloth, you’ve released yourself into it. He purrs out encouraging words when he sets your belly down. The rolling waves of high that enter you help the orgasm ride.

You don’t speak until he sits next to you, dragging a chair over and placing his large hand above yours. “Gamzee.” You wheeze, and he looks up at you in interest. “There’s, there’s a school reunion going on. Next week…” His smile grows wider, eyebrows lifting. You swear you can see his pupils dilate, but it may be the drugs coursing through your body. “Should we go? I don’t want them to…” You trail off, squeezing your thick underbelly. Some habits never die.

“If you want to.” Your friend soothes you with a soft peck to your cheek. You’re blushing. “Y’know, you shouldn’t worry about them, anyway. They’ve got their life, you got yours. I’ll always be there to pick you back up when you’re knocked down, right?”

You smile, as small as it is. “Yeah… I guess you’re right.” He does everything for you, how can he be wrong? “We should go. I want to tell them how fucking better I am than them.”

“That’s the spirit!”‌ Gamzee grins, showing off his sets of teeth. “I’ll get a tailor to all up and make you a motherfuckin’ miraculous tuxedo. Do you want me to make you your travel snacks this time?” You nod immediately. There’s nothing better than Gamzee’s cooking, and he always slathers so much frosting and whip cream on his treats. You love them.

“Can we get some McDonald’s too, on the way?”

Gamzee pats your belly. “Of course we can, Karkat.”


	5. 5.

Living with Gamzee isn’t that bad, not really.

He provides you with anything you’d ever want. Food, drugs, new clothes and bigger blankets. Back at your apartment, you would still have to walk around to do things- to make food for yourself or to turn the television on and off. But here, Gamzee does everything for you. On top of all the money he’s spend, the hours he’s wasted, the food he’s never gotten a taste of- he does this. You feel more bad about it day in and day out.

The days go by in a routine for you. Gamzee makes you a big breakfast before you wake up, usually piles of bacon and eggs, sunnyside up just how you like, with a large mug of orange juice to help drink it all down. He even cooks the eggs in the bacon fat, making them extra delicious. He then rubs your belly after you’ve stuffed yourself, and you always seem to fall back asleep right after. You wake up just in time for lunch, where he stacks grilled cheeses, has large bowls of soups, with as many crackers to munch on as you’d like. The evening consists of watching T.V. or playing games with him, and he feeds you dinner and desert- every meal thick and heavy in your gut. You sleep soon after, and the cycle continues.

He even juggles it all on top of his job.

Even a simple week of living at his home has made you lazier. You’re more reluctant to leave your bed, even more reluctant to leave the house. But with enough coercion and a promise of food and drugs, you always agree to his plans.

You didn’t even realize that today was the big day, you were so tired. You were just done stuffing the last few bites of grilled cheese into your mouth, Gamzee wiping the crumbs from your moobs and chest. All you wanted to do was sleep- nap and nap and nap, eyelids heavy and breath heavier. But instead of Gamzee turning off the lights like you ask, he shakes his head.

“Today’s the reunion.”

You perk. The reunion? “It’s today?” You speak through a mouthful of toast and cheese before swallowing. Your obese belly shakes as you adjust your position. There’s a volley of pillows behind you, helping you stay up while you gorge yourself or watch T.V. It helps keep you awake more often than not, too. “Fuck. I thought that was tomorrow.” You can already feel it: you’re doubting yourself.

“Nah. You just got the days all mixed up in your brain.” A hand gently pats your shoulder, and you slowly shift and turn to the side. You’re perfectly capable of standing on your own two feet, but you’ve grown lazy enough to rely on Gamzee helping you down. You legs almost instantly begin to ache. “I got your shower goin’, just head on over there and get squeaky clean.”

You wheeze, deep and exhausted, before you start your waddle to the bathroom. He’s been nice enough to put your bedroom right next to the bathroom, and even installing a stand-in shower before you got here. He knew you’d have trouble squeezing in the tub. With the fan running and the lights dimmed, you waddle out of your clothes, leaving them in a sweaty, smelly heap on the floor. The shower has a tiny little stepping stool into it, so you grasp onto the metal bar next to the shower door, and weakly heave yourself onto tile. The shower water is running a perfect warm; Gamzee knows you love it that way.

There’s another bar for you to hold onto while you wash yourself. With your free hand, you take the bar of soap from the wall, rubbing it against your belly until suds form. Then, with careful precision, you rub yourself up. You gently prod between the two rolls of your belly, getting suds stuck in your bellybutton before you move to your arms, and then your armpits. You scrub under your moobs, sighing as all that accumulated sweat melts away. It’s a bit harder to do your back: you simply reach as far as you can with the soap, getting bubbles as far as you can. You do your thighs more slowly, biting your lip as you gently wash your fatpad.

You try to stick the soap back on its holder, but before you can you slip- and the soap falls to the ground with a pathetic splat. You gasp, shame instantly creeping onto your rosy cheeks as the sight of the soap is completely lost under the apex of your belly. Should you try to reach for it? You can’t be too fat to grab it, right?

Your legs scream in agony when you bend them, and you hiss out a swear- gravity making your belly sway and pool like whip cream. Your ass is forced to press against wet, tiled walls, and you desperately and blindly grasp for the bar of soap. Your breath is heaving, nearly panting as you drool out a few strings of saliva. You’re so exhausted, it hurts so much-

You slip, and you squeal in terror- stumbling and fumbling before you land hard on your ass. Pain shoots up into your body and you instantly cry out for the only person who’s there: _“Gamzee!”_

By the time he comes in the bathroom, you’re crying. You’re so humiliated- and you know you’re just smooshing the bar of soap under your body. You’re too fat to grab it. Gamzee doesn’t say anything, he simply bends down, getting his own body soaked as he pulls you into a hug.

Desperate for comfort, you grasp onto his shirt, and cry lamely. This is so shameful. You’ve never been more embarrassed before. Too fat to pick up a fucking bar of soap.

He doesn’t say anything. He lets you sit there, unhooking the shower head from its holder, rinsing of all the suds for you. He slathers shampoo and conditioner onto your head, massaging your scalp with expert nails, and once again rinses it out for you. You let him invade every sagging fold, every pool of flesh, your face deep red with shame.

“It’s okay.” He wraps a towel around you, helping you stand. Your legs are shaking so bad, you’re worried you might collapse. “I’ll just have to put a seat in there, and you can keep washing yourself.” _It’s not the same,_ you want to tell him. It’s not the same and it’ll never be. You’ll still be needing assistance to be washed.

At least you can still walk on your own.

He shows you off your new tuxedo, which makes you a bit more excited for the reunion. It’s slick and black, with a black bowtie and little cuffs at the end of the sleeves. He helps you into it, and even buttons it up your huge, wobbling gut. The dress pants is pulled up the folds of your belly, making it stand out more than ever. It’s snug, comfy against your frame, and you purr out a thank you as you admire yourself in the mirror.

For a moment, you’re not scared of what might happen. You’re just happy Gamzee’s got you a tux.

“You ready to head out?” He’s got his own tuxedo on, black and purple, checking his wallet for anything he might need. You nod, and even lean over to peck him on the cheek.

“You look good.” You say, a tiny minuscule blip of good deeds compared to the shit he’s done for you, but he acts like he’s won the whole world. He nuzzles against you, and you laugh.

“Let’s knock ‘em dead, bro.”

* * *

The drive is long and boring. At least he kept up on his promise- all of the travel snacks are personally made by him, and he even stops at McDonald’s. As you munch your way through forty chicken nuggets, he speaks for the both of you.

“I can’t wait to see all them bitches and motherfuckers when we get there.” He chirps happily, tapping his fingers to the beat of a song playing on the radio. You moan your agreement through a mouthful of chicken and sauce. “I heard Eridan’s all beefed up and muscular now, yeah? And Nepeta’s got her own cat cafe downtown.”

Cat cafe… You’d wanna chug down a few cups of her coffee.

“Me and Equius have been in touch, you know? He’s got Tavros in this wicked ass wheelchair. Man, they’re gonna be so excited to see us.”

“ _Mrrrngh….. Food there…”_

“Yeah, Karbro! And there’ll be food there too. I brought my own batch of cupcakes- don’t worry, I got a second batch just for you. I know how you love your sweets.”

He keeps talking, even as he pulls his car up to the rented ballroom where it’s being hosted. There’s a pathetic little display of balloons and streamers outside, with a little banner that says **CLASS OF 20XX** in bold, aggressive lettering. Terezi probably did that. Gamzee helps you out of the car like always, and gently chides the crumbs that had formed around your lips. He’s brought napkins to wipe them away, though.

By the time you two reach the double doors at the entrance, you’re sweating. Deodorant can only do so much for so long, and Gamzee gently runs another napkin over the line of sweat that’s formed above your brow. Your heavier, fatter arm is interlocked with his, and you’re nearly leaning on him as you two enter the building.

Eyes turn towards you.

And they stare.

You can see Equius, who was conversing with Rose- and the two of them already look disgusted enough to puke. Dave’s trying to keep a straight face, but you can tell he’s feeling the same way. Tavros and Nepeta look more disgusted in Gamzee than you, and Vriska’s already whispering in Terezi’s ear. Only Eridan and Kanaya look concerned, and almost immediately Eridan strides over to you two.

He’s certainly more muscular the last time you saw him. And conventionally attractive. Perfectly slicked back hair, posture straight as a board, tuxedo perfectly stitched. “Karkat.” He speaks, and his voice is low and accented. You’re already thoroughly ashamed with yourself.

Even so, he takes a pudgy hand in his, and gives a firm shake. “Eridan.” You respond, a soft nod leaving you. You can’t quite meet Eridan’s eye, not like this.

Kanaya similarly greets you, except with a hug- she’s clearly startled, what with the way she sinks into your flab. “It feels like forever.” She murmurs, and you feel a pang of genuine affection from her. Not the disgusted looks and disappointed glares.

“It really does.” You rasp back. Gamzee looks over at the pair with a friendly beam.

“Alright bud, I’m gonna go hang with Tavros and the boys over there.” He grins, and gives you a pat on the back. “If you need something to eat, just tell me, okay?” All of a sudden, he’s unhooking an arm from yours, and sauntering away, leaving you alarmed and confused.

Did he just go?

You have to balance yourself on your own two legs, and you grasp your belly with an arm. “Do you know where…the food table is?” You wheeze, looking over at Eridan and Kanaya. Their concern has only quadrupled over these past moments.

“Over there, but-” Eridan’s cut off, as you’re already making you way over there. You ignore Vriska’s high pitched cackles and Dave’s whispers towards John, your mind already working on how you’d stuff yourself this time. Maybe you can ever stuff yourself to the brim.

“Karkat?” It’s Kanaya, and you feel an elegant hand press against your shoulder. You grumble and continue to waddle towards the table. You want to talk to her, and you will- once you’re full. “Karkat, we’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

You only stop once you reach the table. It’s nothing special- dumb little snack foods that can barely feed you, but that just means you’d have to eat a lot to compensate for it. _“What?”_ You growl, already reaching for a large bag of chips. Party size, probably.

“What’s Gamzee been doin’ to you?” Eridan speaks much more gruffly, and you reply once you’ve shoved a handful of chips into your mouth.

“Nothin’.” A tiny pause. “Feedin’ me.”

“We can… see that, dear.” Kanaya flashes Eridan a hard stare when he adds _if it isn’t fuckin’ obvious._

You eat the whole bag of chips, crumbs staining your lips and double chin. You grab a handful of cheese squares and salami and start munching.

“We’re concerned about you.” Kanaya once again tries to hold your shoulder, but you roughly pull away. Eridan adds, “This isn’t healthy.”

“I can still walk.”

_“Just barely!”_ Eridan hisses. Kanaya doesn’t do much else than nod in agreement. “You’re eatin’ yourself to death, and that bastard over there is the one leadin’ you to it!”

You belch, shove the last of the cheese and salami, and start on Gamzee’s cupcakes. You deliberately choose not to touch the veggie platter. “How do you know?” You hiss, and you finally turn around, though you can barely do it without toppling over. “You didn’t fff- _fucking_ talk to me or him at all!”

Eridan crosses his arms, letting out a snort of breath. He’s trying to keep his composure, but you don’t care about yours. The others are starting to stare, stare more than usual, some already coming over from their positions to witness the blob and Ampora fight. “It’s plain as fuckin’ day! Look at you! You look like a fuckin’ whale and Gamzee was feedin’ off you like some symbiote!”

A second cupcake. A third. A fourth. You’re stressed, you’re hungry, you’re tired and you’re aching. You stuff yourself in front of everyone, not even bothering to respond to Eridan or anyone else. You can feel your belly bloating beneath the snugness of the tux, frosting and crumbs staining it all over. As you finally begin to shovel down the last cupcake…

_ping. ping ping ping._

Your legs hurt too much to stand. You collapse to your knees, heart thumping in your chest, breathing heaving. Your buttoned tux in ruin in front of you, your obese belly hanging open for everyone to see. You’re a mess. You respond to Eridan with a mumble of shame. “I don’t care.”

Eridan is dumbfounded, but he finally steps away. Kanaya steps closer, though you can still he her keep her distance. She’s disgusted in your performance, just like everyone else. “Karkat, please try to calm down-”

_“I’M CALM!”_ You shriek, and finally, _finally,_ Gamzee arrives. He hooks his arms under your shoulders, helping you up onto your aching legs. “I…. I _Eat._ I’m calm. I’m fucking calm. I eat…. _good ol’ meal…”_ Your voice tapers off into silence, tears falling down your bloated, heavy cheeks.

Everyone stares at you while Gamzee leads you out of the party. They’re like a gaggle of fisherman, watching a fish flop uselessly on the docks.


	6. 6.

You cry on the way home.

Not much else. Gamzee pulls into a fast food joint you don’t have the mind to mention, and you mindlessly stuff yourself full of burgers and fries until you’re hiccuping past your bawling. Your belly aches from being overfull, pressing against the waistband of your gut painfully. You whine and whine until the other gently pushes the waistband under the folds.

You feel like shit.

Like, utter, total shit. A mere check of your phone confirms that everyone’s blocked you, at least everyone who bothered to keep speaking to you through your typo’d words. You’re the laughingstock of the group. You just humiliated yourself further and now you’re crying on and on about it. You _should_ be ashamed; be ashamed in yourself for being like this.

You don’t even know why Gamzee deals with you. The entire ride home, he tries to calm you down- buying you food, pulling out to a parking lot to rub your belly. Nothing helps. You just keep shoving him away, stewing in your own self loathing. Too fat to pick up a bar of soap. Too fat to be presentable to your friends.

Too fucking fat.

Through your own wheezing panic, you decide that you need to lose weight. You finally decide to say _no,_ to deny Gamzee’s advances no matter how much it makes you feel like shit. It was his choice to buy you food, it was his choice to leave you alone with Eridan and Kanaya. It was his choice, his his his. You’re convinced this is entirely his fault.

When he gets home, you don’t let him help you. You make him watch as you painfully wheeze and pant as you shuffle out of the car seat, legs shaking violently as you sweat through your broken tuxedo. You needed to exercise. You needed to get all this weight off of you. You needed to be normal again, not this, this…. _whale._

You nearly collapse once again when you enter the front door, your heart thrumming painfully loud through your chest. Saliva threatens to spill from your lips, and you shudder in pain, breath wet. Gamzee tries to help you up- but you snarl _“Don’t fucking touch me.”_ as you fight your way through your pain. Gamzee doesn’t touch you.

“I’m losing… this weight.” You wheeze, belly aching, tears still silently spilling down your cheeks. “I can’t, I can’t…..”

“Babe…” Gamzee uses a phrase you never heard before. A pet name that isn’t bro, man, or dude. He calls you babe, and you’re startled enough to have him take one of your hands. “You’re just stressed, is all…”

“I’m nnn- not.” Your voice hitches, and even though you’re so _angry_ at him, you fall back down into broken sobs. “I’m too fat, I’m too fucking _fat._ I don’t want to be fat anymore, I don’t, I don’t.” You resolve to letting him lead you to your bedroom, simply repeating your words over and over as he gently slips you out of your clothes. His hand runs over your belly, rubbing in places that feel good, and you only cry harder when you realize that you’ll probably never get lighter again.

You wheeze even when you walk for a few steps, how were you ever going to lose weight?

“I’m-” you sniffle, and your gut makes a noise for you. It growls, already hungry after just eating. _“I’m hungry.”_ Gamzee’s frowning, helping you push your obese legs up onto the bed. “Are you sure Karkat?” For once, there’s genuine concern. “We can try to get you to lose weight. I know you’ll be able to do it-”

_“I’m hungry!”_ You repeat yourself, hissing, and your friend nods. He leaves you in your bed, head in your hands, ashamed for being as needy as he was. You’re such an asshole. A disgusting, greedy asshole. Gamzee does all this for you, waits on your hand and foot, and you act like a fucking… _little kid_ around him. You don’t deserve him. He’s too good of a friend for you.

Your thoughts are confirmed when he enters your room a couple hours later, holding a tray filled with steaming pies. You’re so starving, you _need_ them. Just how you need Gamzee himself. You fill your gut and dry your tears with thick, warm deserts, moaning around each mouthful like the disgusting pig that you are. Between each pie, you speak. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay Karbro, it really is.”

“I’m sorry.” You apologize through another mouthful. You’re emotional. He knows it. It’s as obvious as you were huge. “I’m scared. I’m scared.”

You don’t acknowledge his response, and simply glut yourself on a chocolate and whip cream pie. Your belly grumbles its content. You’re not even halfway through the pies.

Gamzee goes from responding to your words to simply feeding you, once you become too shaky to feed yourself. He feeds you slice after slice, wiping away tears that roll down your puffy cheeks. Graham cracker and filling is all that eventually fills your mind, just as it fills your belly. “’M gonna die.”

“No you’re not.” Gamzee hushes you, voice sweet and saccharine, and encourages you to eat another pie. You do, stuffing yourself full of thick, sweet taste. “Ain’t any weight gonna do you harm.”

“My heart hurts.”

Another slice. “We’ll get you some heart medicine, then.”

“I can’t breathe good.”

Your tongue slightly burns on blueberry filling. “There isn’t any shame in gettin’ a respirator.”

“I don’t want to die, Gamzee.”

He presses the final slice into your maw. You chew, slow and sullen, until you swallow. Your jaws hurt. Your belly hurts. Your everything hurts. Your friend- always as nice as ever- moves forward to massage your stomach. He moves in expert circles, helping you burp up any bubbles of air, alleviating some of the pain. “You’re not gonna die.” Gamzee repeats. When you don’t look at him, he reaches over and takes your soft double chin. Your eyes bore into purple. Nearly glowing. Pearly white fangs.

“Karkat.” He says, and his voice is deeper. His voice is deeper and he looks serious. “You’re not gonna die.”

“I’m not gonna die.”

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“I- _won’t-”_

His grip just barely tightens, and you puff in pain. “I’m gonna be fine.”

That dopey smile returns. Kind and genuine. He pulls himself down to massage at your belly further. His words repeat in your head: _you’re not gonna die. You’re not gonna die. You’re gonna be fine._ A constant cycle, over and over. You know he’d do anything for you. He’d get the medicine, he’d get the breather, he’d get whatever you wanted if you asked.

Do you really want to trust him that much?

Eridan doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know what _Gamzee_ knows. He’s buff, and dumb, and left you for some chick you moved halfway across the country. He doesn’t know how fat works. Gamzee’s a chef. He’s been caring for you for over a year, he’s always been there to help, always been there to calm you down with a snack and a helpful grin. He knows how fat works.

It’s not like you can call anyone other than him, anyway.

“Gamzee.” You speak, voice raspy. “I’m thirsty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we still arent done yet boys


	7. 7.

He gets you heart medicine. He leaves your shared home for a few hours one day, leaving you with enough food to gorge yourself on, and eventually comes back with armfuls of medicine for you. He stacks them all up in the closet in your room, and you watch with tired eyes, breath heaving through you mouth as he pops open a lid and lets a handful of gel pills fall into his hand.

It’s been a long time since you’ve moved in. So long, you can’t tell the exact time anymore. Over six months, that was for sure. Over that time Gamzee’s been keeping you in bed, just so it can stop you from being in pain all the time. Or maybe he just wants you in bed all the time, you don’t know.

He fills a jug full of soda, the fizzling and popping making your mouth water. You try to reach out for it, but you’re gently chided by Gamzee, telling you this is for the pills. He can get you another jug afterwards if you want. You nod. You always want. You always want to be eating something or drinking something, because if you do you won’t be stressed, and you won’t be thinking, and you won’t be dwelling on nasty thoughts.

There’s a lot of pills, just to try and compensate for your weight. To be frank, you’re afraid to take them. You don’t want to choke, you don’t want to get a bad reaction and puke your guts out. But truly, you’re afraid because this feels like a threshold. You feel like you’re signing some contract when you take these pills, because this is the first time you ever have to take medicine. You know it’ll make the heart burn go away, but there’s still this tiny sliver of reluctance that won’t go away. You don’t _want_ to.

You take them anyway. You guzzle and guzzle down the soda, burbling in discomfort when you have to swallow pills along with it. Your belly aches something fierce, and he rubs your stomach to soothe you. He always rubs your belly for you. He’s such a good friend.

The ebb in your chest slowly dies away, after that. It makes your breathing less labored, sweat less sticky and annoying to deal with. Your belly doesn’t shudder as much when you breathe. The only downside is that it makes the fogginess in your mind double, but that’s not a huge issue. You don’t put your mind through anything that difficult, anyway. All you do day in and day out is watch shows and eat. You haven’t had a job in so long, it feels like forever since you’ve lifted or carried something that wasn’t food to your mouth.

You’ve gotten lazier over the months. Some days you’re so tired and sullen that you refuse to leave the bed, even for showers, so Gamzee has to make you clamor onto your aching feet and waddle into the bathroom. You hate those days the most, because it feels forced. It feels less like you call the shots and more like he calls the shots. He refuses to leave the bathroom, too- and you shamefully scrub yourself while Gamzee watches.

Some days you like, though. Some days you get that spark you used to have, and you bark and growl orders at your friend and he follows them to a T. You feel like you’re in charge, like you’re back in highschool, back being that short little spitfire with a bit of muscle and a reputation for having a temper. Sure, you didn’t have a wheeze behind your growl, and you didn’t constantly demand for food all day long- but as Gamzee puts it, sometimes people just all up and change. Perhaps you all up and changed too.

You’ve gotten fatter. Your belly has expanded and grown, growing only softer and larger as the days go by. It forces your legs apart, constantly wobbling and shaking with the slightest breath, huge enough to completely smother your lap. It’s so thick and flabby, Gamzee can sink his hand in real far before it reaches a hard part. Your moobs are massive enough to sag to the sides, nipples perking at the slightest breeze that enters your room. Your chin and neck have merged into a puffy ring of fat, making eating harder. Your ass is a cushion in itself, smothered by a mountain of pillows that keep you sitting up, and your thighs are fat and flabby enough to match. Your arms are similarly thick in that it’s only getting harder reaching them out for food. You’re so fat. So massively, enormously fat.

It’s fine, though. You can still walk. And if you can still walk, it means you’re not _that_ fat. You’re not completely helpless. Walking is a chore, yeah, but at least you can still do the action. It makes you feel important, rather than a blob relying on Gamzee’s kindness.

The pills go down without trouble, and you fluidly drink the rest of the soda with a few massive gulps. It’s nowhere near enough to truly stuff you, but it’s enough to sate that creeping hunger that seems to always be present. “See? It wasn’t so bad.” Gamzee pats your belly, and it ripples under his touch. You agree. It’s not that bad. It helps you breathe better.

“I wanna…”‌ You mumble. Sometimes it gets hard for you to speak beyond whispers or murmurs. You don’t know if that’s a side effect of the weight gain, or something else. But if you yell too much or move too much, it hurts you all over. “….shower…” You scratch absently at the side of your gut. Showering is one of the only things you can do on your own anymore, so you relish it. Even if Gamzee watches you the entire time, it’s still something he doesn’t have to put a hand in. Sometimes you take showers just to do something on your own for once.

“You sure?” Gamzee cocks his head to the side, still letting his hand rub smoothly over the expanse of your tummy. “It might disturb all them pills runnin’ through you.” You’re glad he’s concerned, you really are, but you almost immediately puff in anger.

“I wanna _shower.”_ You repeat yourself, chubby hands forming into chubby fists, sweat glistening on your forehead. Your friend sighs, but his smile is still there. You think he’s amused. You don’t know. “Alright, alright.” Gamzee soothes you in that gentle, sweet voice. “Let’s get you up and ready for a shower.”

There’s routine in the way he slips an arm around your back, gently squeezing a love handle to keep yourself calm. His other arm gently tugs you forward, and you slowly shift your weight to turn. Standing has been getting harder and harder. You’re certain you can’t get up without Gamzee supporting you the whole way.

Your belly wobbles deeply, shuddering as it’s forced to move to the side. You grip your belly with a chubby mitt, huffing deep in the back of your throat. It’s already aching, churning in the basin of its massive size, and you let out a pained burp with all of the movement. Soda makes you very sloshy. Your legs are even worse off- they nearly scream in pain, knees barely able to bend under so many layers of adipose. Your toes curl, and you let out a wheeze, your legs refusing to move much, if at all.

“Help,” You whine, pained and exhausted, and Gamzee takes your legs and slowly pushes them over the edge. The sheets shift under your massive, jiggling weight.

“Take it slow.” Your friend soothes you. You try to take it slow- you go as slow as you possibly can, gently shifting your rump off the side of the bed. But the moment your feet hit the ground, you struggle. They shake awfully, muscles weak and underused, and you’re only up for a few moments before they give out under you and you collapse.

Gamzee, thankfully, catches you. You’re wheezing, sweating profusely, needing to lean on him with most of your weight to even think about standing again. Gamzee’s giving you one of his looks. But instead of it being amusement, or comfort, it’s pity. He’s pitying you. You don’t know why.

“Let me go.” You huff, and he shakes his head. The action makes you huff deeper, nearly keening. He starts to heave you up back onto the bed, but you don’t _want_ that. You want to have control, you want to shower because it’s the only thing you can do on your own. You want to be in charge of yourself. But he takes hold of you chest, gently getting you situated back onto your pillows.

You still try to get up. You gasp and ache, belly wobbling painfully with each breath you take, and you desperately try to rock yourself upwards. You can’t. Your legs aren’t working with you- they’re not moving when you want them to, they’re not moving _enough,_ leaving you a mess of fear and sweat and agony. Why aren’t they moving enough?

“Karkat.” You snarl at Gamzee’s comfort, still clawing at a chance to stumble to your feet. “Karkat.” You ignore him. You can get up, you want to take a _fucking shower-_

_“Karkat.”_ A hand grasps your soft chin, and you bite your lip. You’re forced into looking at Gamzee’s face. “Calm down, bud. You can’t get up.”

“Yes I can.” Your response is immediate, sharpened with pain. You want to cry, but you don’t. You don’t have the energy to. You want to believe you can just get up and walk away, and that you’re not bound by your own weight. You want to believe like you’re not completely burdened due to your own eating habits. “I wanna shower.”

“I’ll bathe you right here, bro.”

“That’s _embarrassing.”_

He chides you for your words, and you whine. “Ain’t nothing embarrassing about it!” He places a hand on one of your tree trunk legs, and you stare down at it. You silently throw insults at it for not letting you move. Stupid fucking leg. I hate you. I wanna shower. I want to do something. I don’t want Gamzee to do it.

But, you can’t choose for him to stop. He disappears out of your room, and soon comes back with soap, a small basin, some towels and a sponge. A _sponge._ A new wave of shame fills you, completely foreign and uncomfortable. You’ve only heard of sponge baths, you never thought you’d experience it. “This isn’t the same.”‌ You make a desperate attempt to wish it all away with your words. You wish the other would just say he’s joking, laugh, and take you to the bathroom. “This isn’t a shower, no, no.”

He dips the sponge into the basin, rubbing it with soap until it’s filled with suds and bubbles. “Awh, look on the bright side, Karbro!” The sponge is brought to your belly, and you shudder weakly, watching with obvious shame and humiliation. He dips between every fold and sag of your gut, wiping away the sweat and grime. “You won’t have to move, now.”

“I wanna move!” Or, well… Maybe you don’t?‌ You don’t know. The pain is unbearable, and you’re always sweating and gasping for air when you only move a few feet. There’s a seat in the shower, but even the stand in shower is starting to get too small for your bulk. It hurts your legs to sit on such an uncomfortable seat. And if you keep walking, keep walking while your weight climbs… You might just break your legs.

The sponge is dipped in the basin, soap reapplied, and he moves to your legs. He gently rubs silken thighs, the slightest movement making them jiggle and wobble. Beneath all your layers of flab, you feel your dick twitch. You hum is discontent. Gamzee moves on before you can ask him to continue. You don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable with your gross fetishes, so you keep yourself silent.

“There’s nothing wrong with being immobile.” Gamzee says that word. Immobile. You hold it in your mouth like a chocolate, letting it melt and tumble down into your belly. You’re immobile. Non movable. You can’t walk without collapsing right on the floor. The thought of standing makes you ache. “That just means you can’t move. There’s nothin’ wrong with keeping still, yeah?‌ People keep still all the time. While they’re sleeping, watching a movie, eatin’…”

His words make your foggy mind stutter. You’re confused. You don’t know what to believe. “Not all the time.” Is all you can murmur, eyes focusing on the sponge as it rubs your chunky arms. It travels under your moobs, gently passing over nipples, which make you twitch. Finally, it scrubs at rosy cheeks, leaving all all sudsy and wet. He takes a washcloth, damp and warm, and begins to slowly rinse you down.

“Yeah, but they got jobs. All you gotta do is worry about your appetite.”‌ He says it so casually. Like it’s a normal thing. You weakly shrug your shoulders in response.

You’re silenced while he rinses you off. Gamzee dries you off with a couple towels, as one towel just can’t cut your massive, obese size. Everything makes you jiggle and wobble like jello. You can’t meet his eyes without feeling shame. All you wanted was a shower.

“What if I get too big to pick things up?”‌ You ask because you’re concerned, and Gamzee gives you that pity stare he’s given you before, gathering up the cleaning materials in his spindly arms.

“We’ll get you a funnel, of course. Or I can just feed you myself.” He winks, mischevious.

You think to yourself, foggy mind slow and processing your conflict. Eventually, you mumble in embarrassment. “…Can we get a funnel now?”

Thankfully, Gamzee doesn’t question you. “Of course, babe. Now you just relax right there while I get you your lunch.” Lunch. Lunch, yeah. You want lunch. Your belly growls in hunger like a beast ready to pounce.


	8. 8.

After a week of staying in your bed, he moves you to the couch. He tells you you’ll like it better over there, where there’s a bigger room for your bigger body. You’ll feel less crowded and claustrophobic. You don’t say no, because it’s not like you can get up and walk away or anything.

The movement was agonizing. You had to take multiple breaks- sitting in the hallway, your belly churning and your legs nearly breaking. You’re so heavy, too heavy to walk. You need Gamzee to nearly carry you, as putting near to any weight on your legs makes you cry out. You’re certain it’s unhealthy- you know it is. You know people in their early twenties shouldn’t be having this much trouble moving. But you’ve given up trying to lose weight.

A week passes. Your breath starts to get more labored and deep, nearly guttural; even with your pills. Gamzee orders a respirator, and the moment it arrives and he hooks it up to you, you nearly sob in relief. You’ve never breathed this well- it feels like you’re taking deep breaths out in the sunshine, taking in the sun’s rays and enjoying the weather. Before, you hated the sunshine. But now you craved it.

You’re spiteful, and depressed. Gamzee tells you you’re depressed, and you know he’s right. He knows you want to move, and thankfully, he’s gentle about it- he comforts you through your bad episodes, helps you eat and eat to calm you down. He makes the biggest cakes you’ve ever seen, the most delicious cookies you’ve ever tasted. “I always make the best shit for my best friend.” He tells you, shoving brownies stuffed with so much weed, it nearly knocks you out. At this point, you need the weed to take the pain off completely.

You start to get headaches a couple months after. Gamzee buys you blackout curtains and puts them over the living room windows, completely shrouding you in darkness. It helps ease the throb in the back of your skull. He kisses your belly to help comfort you through your pain, fingers pressing into clammy, jiggly cellulite that’s accumulated around your thighs. You’re so soft, he tells you. “You’re as soft as a motherfuckin’ water bed.”

Your skin is clammy and soft. Way too soft. It’s so soft because Gamzee takes the time to lotion it up for you. He always makes sure you’re comfortable and smooth. He’s always so slow with it too- going between your rolls, taking his time and making sure every last portion of you is smooth. You’re so pale. You feel like you’re some soft pale whale stuck on the beach.

He keeps telling you you won’t die. Every single day, when you wake up for breakfast and his try is piling high with eggs and bacon. “You won’t die.” He gently reminds you, and he kisses the grease from the corners of your lips as you fatten yourself up with treats. “What’s a little weight gonna do to ya? Nothin’, that’s what.” You even start to believe him, after a while. Even when your chest is constantly burning, when you can’t breathe without assistance, when you’re muscles are painfully atrophied into uselessness. You’re deteriorating, but you don’t believe it.

You like giving up. It makes eating all the easier.

* * *

Gamzee watches you as you devour pizza after pizza. Sauce and cheese and grease dribble from your lips and down your chins, and you can’t help but moan and grunt while you stuff yourself. You like pizza, especially when he orders box after box of them. He’s ordered ten this time, and you’re just finishing up your third.

Slices disappear down your gullet with a thick gulp, your belly wobbling. Your belly has grown even larger, oozing from your torso and pooling onto the floor like dripping syrup. Your belly has fattened so far that your two rolls have merged back into one, your navel deep. It’s constantly making noise, nowadays- grumbling and gurgling, churning and burbling. You’ve fallen asleep to the sound of it aching in fullness too many times to count, it’s like a lullaby for you.

“I’ve got something for you.” He purrs, and you moan through your meal to show your acknowledgement. He pets your hair for a few moments, staring at you with those glowing purple eyes. But soon, he backs up. You assume he’s getting your present.

You end up being right. He returns with something big and heavy slung over his shoulder, before letting it land on the ground with a small thump. It’s a stool. A stool with a comfy cushion situated on top, study and wide. Eyes wide as saucers, you stare dumbly, pulling a half eaten slice away from your lips to watch as he slowly heaves up your boulder of a belly. It hurts, for a minute- but then your belly is oozing onto the cushion, and you feel sudden relief. It feels so nice. You hiccup, mumble a thank you, and begin stuffing yourself.

Your mind kinda fogs over then.

That’s how you stuff yourself now. You eat and eat and eat, and your thoughts glaze over as you focus everything on the sensation and flavor. You tend to get a bit messy when that happens, but you don’t care. Gamzee wipes it all up for you anyway.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been eating until you hear a knock at the door. A second knock, and then the doorbell rings. You don’t look up from your pizzas. Usually it’s some solicitor who knocks on the door anyway. And why would they want to talk to you? They always get so disgusted when they smell the weed and sweat, and they see you lying on the couch. You don’t want to look up to see who it is anymore- you don’t want to see their disgust.

But it’s safe to say you’re interested when you hear a familiar voice. “I’d like to talk to _Karkat,_ please.”

It’s Eridan.

Gamzee shrugs, opening the door all the way. Inside comes Eridan, who’s still wearing a tacky cape and scarf, as well as Kanaya, who looks thoroughly uncomfortable. The place is pitch black, reeks of weed and food, and you’re sitting in the middle of it all. Of course she’s uncomfortable.

You don’t talk to them, not yet. You take your time stuffing down the rest of your fifth pizza, letting sauce flick down onto your chest. You’re naked, long been so- and you’re still spiteful over the party. “What do you want?” You grumble, your respirator letting out a puff of air. You breathe deeply.

“You need to lose weight.” Eridan speaks, matter-of-factly. Kanaya nods along. “Karkat, look at yourself. You need help with breathing!”

“So?”

Eridan rolls his eyes. Kanaya speaks for him. “Karkat. We’re going to be blunt with you. If you keep eating, if you keep living with Gamzee, you’re going to… suffer through the consequences.”

Gamzee perks, and he slips behind you. He presses a hand to your cheek and urges you to keep eating. You happily oblige, and start to gorge yourself. “Now, now.” Gamzee hums, and you can hear that deep seriousness under his drawl. “Who’s to say he ain’t havin’ a good time here?”

“We are.” Eridan growls.

Gamzee ignores him. “Karbro here is havin’ the time of his life right here. He don’t need any exes or otherwise bothering him around. Right, buddy?” You nod, sullen. You keep eating while Eridan sputters at his comment.

“This isn’t about fuckin’ past relationships!” Kanaya shoots Eridan a glare, and he pauses, sputters again, and keeps silent. “He’s right.” She continues for him. “This isn’t about anything that happened in the past, or about Eridan or anyone else. This is about Karkat, right now. Gamzee, look at him! Look at him for real. He’s less than a month away from death and you’re leading him right down that path!”

You pause, alarm shooting up into you. “Death?” You squeal in alarm, but Gamzee soothes your belly with gentle rubs, murmuring _don’t listen to them_ while you shudder in fear. When your friend straightens himself back up, he growls. “He’s perfectly fuckin’ fine, as far as I can tell.” He pats your aching boulder of a belly. Memories of the night after the party flash in your brain. He was reassuring you.

_You’re not gonna die. You’re gonna be fine._

“Karkat.” Eridan speaks to you, and you look up from your box of pizza. “You have every right to leave this house if you want. You can stay at my place. We can get you exercising again.” Kanaya nods along with him. “Dave couldn’t come, but he said he could help you train with weaponry. You’d like that, right?”

You would like that. You’d like that a lot. But…

“I wanna stay….” You mumble deeply, and stuff another slice of pizza in your mouth. You’re so hungry. You’re always so hungry. You don’t want to bother them because you’d beg and beg and sob for food at Eridan’s, and you’d be so empty all the time. Only Gamzee knows how to truly sate your hunger. Your chest burns, heart thumping painfully fast in your chest. “I wanna stay with Gamzee.”

The two give you concerning looks. “Karkat-”

You snap. _“Fuck off.”_

Kanaya’s concern grows, but Eridan’s face hardens. “We’ll be on our way, then.” He grunts, and taking Kanaya’s hand, they leave the house.

You feel like you’ve just missed something very important. But Gamzee pecks a greasy cheek. “Ain’t that an annoyance, huh? Intrudin’ on our business like that.”

You nod, your brows furrowing. They had no right to intrude. To scare you like that. Gamzee promises he’d make you a cake for the trouble, and you smile and say thank you, cause that’s all you can do in return.

Gamzee does so much for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost done boys!!!!


	9. 9.

You’re in so much pain.

It fills you to your core, from the basin of your massive gut to the top of your head. You’re in so much, unending pain. It feels like you’re dying, over and over again, right in the middle of your chest.

What’s happening to you?

Sweat rolls down your immobile form in rivulets, creating a pool on the couch you call home. It’s creaking horribly under your weight. Your clammy, soft form is sleek and shiny with all the sweat, and you’re too lazy to lift your arm to wipe any away from your forehead. You’ve never felt more sticky and gross in your entire life.

You’re trying to breathe. Your breath heaves out of your mouth as heavy as it can go- a constant pant, which had only occurred a month before. You couldn’t breathe comfortable without wheezing like a dog, and there’s now a constant stream of drool coming from your puffy lips. You try to reach over to turn the respirator on all the way, but even the slightest twitch flares your heart into agony.

Your heart is beating so fast. You’re running a marathon without moving your legs.

Despite the pain, you grasp the respirator, and you crank it as high as it can go. Even then, it’s not enough. You feel like you’re constantly being yanked underwater, right above the waves before being plunged right down again. You’re terrified. You don’t know what’s going on.

_“Gamzee,”_ You sob out for him, waving your arms in a desperate attempt to claw your way out of you. But you can’t claw out of your own body, no matter how massive it is. Your belly is heaving, bouncing up and down, swaying back and forth. There’s fat tears streaming down your beet red face.

Gamzee comes in from the pitch dark hallway. He’s a deeper shadow amongst normal ones. _“Gamzee- help me-”_ You cry out, because you can’t breathe, and your chest is burning with white hot pain. You’re scared that your heart may very well explode.

Gamzee steps further into the living room. He’s giving you that dopey, gentle smile. It makes you cry harder.

_“please, please- i’m dying, i’m dying-”_

You change your mind. You don’t want to be fat anymore. You don’t want to give up. You want to be with Eridan and Kanaya, you want to be training with Dave and writing screenplays and watching movies and being in control. You don’t want to die. You don’t want to die. You don’t want to die.

Gamzee disappears into the kitchen, and slips out of it soon after. There’s something in his hand. You don’t want to eat- your breathing is wet and guttural.

“You know what gets me calming down?” He speaks, and he’s casual, he’s so casual- He’s so casual while he watches you struggle within a prison of your own fat, in the midst of a heart attack. He opens the thing in his hand- a honey bun.

“I think a good ol’ meal keeps me from bein’ all stressed.”

You like strawberry swirls better.

Your breath becomes a painful rattle. The taste of sweet honey enters your mouth, and you moan in agony. As blackness shrouds your vision, you struggle.

And finally, you swallow.


	10. 10.

Your name is Sollux Captor, and you’re on the path to getting your dream job.

It’s obvious to say that you’re ecstatic, even if you don’t show it. After years of suffering through shitty college project after shitty college project, you finally landed yourself a programming gig that’ll pay you a massive chunk of cash. They say the guy you’re working for works for the government. You hope you can weasel your way into government surveillance work.

The funny thing is, this gig is at your hometown. You moved out of your childhood city when you were in elementary school, so your brother could get a better fitting education system for his disability. You were upset as any fifth grader when you moved out, missing all of your friends- but now you don’t dwell on the thought as much. You never made that many friends in school, anyway.

You bid your housemates Aradia and Feferi goodbye, and set off towards a dream you’ve been working towards for decades. As you sit in the train that heads cross country, you get a better look at your roommate coming up.

You decided to get a roommate early on, so you could juggle your bills as well as save up money for the future. Your father was very heavy on reminding you about investment. He was _also_ cautious about getting roommates off of Craigslist, but you tend to pick and choose what you tell him. You’re not the most perfect son in the world, but at least you’re a hard worker.

You knew this guy back before you moved out- Gamzee Makara. Some weirdo who was known more for sniffing glue than actually doing the work. But he’s a chef now, he told you over text. He makes bank, apparently. You can respect a guy like that. Someone who’s a hard worker.

He tells you other things over text, too. He’s got this sick ass house off the coast of a massive lake, a collection of old movies he’s scrounged from garage sales. He tells you he’s got a nice bedroom for you, with a desk to set up your PCs and everything. You scoff at his clear eagerness to please, yeah, but you’re endeared by it. He’s like Aradia, but somehow even more creepy than she was when you first met her.

You hop off the train a town over and get into a cab. It only takes about forty minutes until you’re on the outskirts of a home you haven’t been in years. As you pass the initial fast food and touristy areas, you catch sight of a crummy looking apartment building- and you frown.

Poor guy.

Karkat had been your best friend, at one point. You ceased talking to him once you got into college, too busy working on your major to chat. You only got the news of his death from your father, who the news from Karkat’s father. Poor fucker died of a heart attack. You probably think he was getting so unbelievably pissed off that he collapsed on the floor, and you slightly snicker at that.

Apparently he was dating Gamzee, too. That’s what he texted you. You feel sorry for the guy. He must be really torn up over Karkat’s death.

You tip the taxi driver when you arrive, bidding him farewell when you step onto green, green grass. It’s beautiful. His house is roomy and well lit, with a foyer and everything. And hell, he was right- there’s a beach out the back. You old onto your bags a bit tighter as you make your way to the front door.

“Sollux!” Gamzee beams, and you smile back at him, adjusting your tacky red and blue shades. “Come in, brother. I made you a nice meal to get that stress off your bones.”

“Wow.” Your smile grows a bit wider. You hadn’t had something homemade in years. “You’re stho nice, Gamzee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand that's a wrap! i hope everyone enjoyed this story just as much as i enjoyed writing it. i'm reading all your comments and i'm so flattered you guys love it! as always, i adore comments and criticism, and thank you for reading Atrophy!
> 
> i may or may not write an alternate ending for a sister fic for this, so stay tuned?

**Author's Note:**

> i always adore comments and criticism!! thank you! <3


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